almost flash fiction/Morning Sickness
I wake up in a fog and there is roaring. Lights pop in front of my bleary eyes. My feet creep like rickety spiders towards the carpet, the caked grit and dirt and a little wet squish. All that roaring, filling up the corners and the temples of my skull. Its bloated weight rolls around on my skinny, unequal neck. My whole thick mass is pounding.
I peel my tongue away from the roof of my mouth, rip the crusty skin that’s stitched my lips together in the night and yawn, loud, stale and anxious like an old lion. Smearing grime from my eyes down my cheeks with one dirty hand, I blink toward the sliding glass patio door which is smothered by a stained beige king size comforter shoved up over the curtain bar. The roaring comes from there. Squinting, I fling my hand out at the comforter and stumble forward, catching myself on its weight and pulling it down with a frenzied yank.
The sun bursts in as if on furious horseback, bringing along all hell in its wake. Straight as an arrow and stumbling backward, I raise my hands in front of my face to try and save my eyes. Some sort of strangled shriek escapes me as my heel catches the filthy carpet and I go sprawling across it on my naked, writhing back.
Pushing up onto my elbows, my eyes screwed almost shut, my mouth gaping open in affront, I can just see the groundskeeper, deeply tan and glancing nervously at the patio door as his leaf blower leads him away around the corner.
Lying here breathing hard in the sunlight, my hand soaking in a puddle of spilled gin, I don’t think about my life.